


What Dreams May Come

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-30
Updated: 2006-11-29
Packaged: 2018-10-26 13:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10787526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Ron has nightmares, but Harry dreams of better days to come. The follow up is not as angst heavy and much more Ron introspective.





	1. What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Anyway, I wrote this ficlet to thank a dear friend of mine, Senoigh (AKA: falloutgirl on LJ) for drawing me this: <http://hobbitcuddles.livejournal.com/24452.html#cutid1> . She knew I was having a week from hell and she helped make it better. I can't thank her enough for giving me such beauty. She has since drawn me a second picture, so a second story is coming shortly. Also, my many great thanks to mr_yer_on_fire for the amazingly fast beta. Girl, you rock my world!   


* * *

Harry woke up abruptly and sat straight up in bed.

Ron was screaming.

Harry bolted from his room and down the hall; he threw open Ron’s bedroom door and ran to his writhing, screaming best mate, caught in the terrifying throes of a nightmare.

He should have known. They both still had them from time to time and they were always horrible. Always.

Ron kicked and punched at the air, and swore at the Death Eaters that held him captive in his mind. 

Ron had been a hell of a captive, and had withstood torture that would have almost rivaled the Longbottoms’. Harry was proud of him for what he had physically endured, but what no one saw was the lasting mental effects of such prolonged torture. What no one understood was that words could hurt just as powerfully as any wand.

The filth that the Death Eaters had filled Ron’s head with had been worse than any Cruciatus.

“Ron, listen to me. It’s Harry, Ron. You’re safe here,” Harry said very gently. He dared not raise his voice or touch him, not yet.

Ron tossed his head aside, away from Harry’s voice. Tears leaked from his eyes. “NO!” he shouted.

Harry took a cautious step closer to the bed. “Wake up now, Ron. Wake up for me.”

Ron just screamed and curled himself into a tight ball, a defensive pose. He expected the Death Eaters, expected Harry, to strike, though whether with words or spells, Harry wasn‘t sure.

“You have to wake up now, Ron. It’s safe here. I’ll keep you safe here. There are no more Death Eaters. It’s just a dream.” Harry softly sat on the very edge of the bed, not touching Ron, not quite yet. “It’s Harry. You know your Harry. You know I won’t let anything hurt you again.”

Ron shuddered hard but didn’t scream this time. Harry was grateful; he hated it when Ron screamed. When they were kids and Ron used to scream or yell, it was kind of funny, but these weren’t the same kinds of screams at all. These were the screams and cries of someone that believed they had been abandoned by everyone they had ever trusted, ever loved.

That’s what the Death Eaters had told him for so long, and because it had taken months for the Order to locate Ron, he had come to believe it.

The Death Eaters would physically torture Ron until he was nearly out of his mind, and then use trained Legilimens on him to probe the deepest corners of his mind, hoping to find Order secrets. What they found, instead, were his weakest psychological spots, and they turned them against him. They would cast Glamours on themselves so they would look like members of Ron’s family and friends, then tease and taunt him, telling him the most horrific things over and over again.

By the time the Order located and rescued Ron, he was convinced that his own Mum had tried to take a potion to abort him when she found out she was carrying yet another “worthless, red-headed monstrosity”, and that the only reason Harry ever tolerated him was because Ron looked and acted stupid, which made Harry only look more intelligent and dominant. He had believed that Harry only kept him around because he needed Ron for a fall guy, a court jester.

It took nearly four months worth of treatment in St. Mungo’s, with six potions a day and four weekly visits with Order-trained Legilimens before Ron finally stopped screaming or crying every time he saw any member of his family, or Harry.

Every Death Eater that had been involved in Ron’s capture had been brought in to the Order and had been tried and sentenced, as per proper Order conduct. Every member except one — Jugson. And Jugson, an old adversary of theirs from the long ago battle in the Department of Mysteries, was, thanks to Harry, very, very dead.

Harry had planned to bring Jugson in along with everyone else, until the slimy old man laughed and smiled and said, in Harry’s own voice, how very easy it was to be Harry Potter. 

Ron had screamed upon hearing him and Harry realized what Jugson had been doing to his friend all that time. Rage unlike he had ever known filled him, and Harry had simply raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse. When he was questioned about it later, he claimed that Jugson had tried to curse both he and Ron, so he had no choice. He was taken simply at his word; sometimes, being the _real_ Harry Potter did have its perks.

That was the first time Harry had ever cast the Killing Curse. The second, and last time, was when he finally faced down Voldemort. To this day, he was still not sorry for either event.

Ron moaned again, a bit more softly, and Harry thought it was finally safe to touch him, so he gently stroked his fingers through Ron’s hair. “Ron, are you awake? It’s me; it’s your Harry. Wake up, love.”

Ron whimpered but Harry didn’t give up; this time he made his voice clearer, stronger. He turned Ron’s face so that he cupped it in his palm. “Ron, listen to me now. Wake up! Get up. It’s Harry, and I’ve got you and you’re safe!”

Ron tried one last time to pull away, albeit feebly.

Harry slipped his arm under Ron’s shoulders and he finally stirred. “Ron, wake up now!”

Ron squeezed his eyes tight and curled against him. He murmured, whined. “Wha? No, ’s cold. I want Harry. Where’s Har— ?”

But Harry interrupted him. He pulled him further up so they were sitting and Ron seemed to rouse further. “Hush. Hush now. I’m right here. I’ve got you; you’re alright.” He pulled the threadbare and patched blue blanket closer around Ron. 

Ron blinked slowly up at him, awake now. “Harry?” he asked, his voice rough from his screaming and sleep.

How it was that someone so broad-shouldered and tall could look so very vulnerable, Harry wasn’t sure. But every time this happened, Ron looked like a sacrificial lamb ready to be led off to slaughter. His frame was big and his muscles were defined, but his skin was so pale and his eyes were so blue, and they always, _always_ filled with tears when he got his bearings and realized what had happened.

“Harry? Oh, I’m sorry!” Ron curled closer into him. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Hush!” Harry said firmly, and Ron did. Harry wove his fingers back through Ron’s thick, ginger hair, an act that seemed to sooth him. “You can’t help what you dream, and you know I would never leave you to suffer alone through that, just as you wouldn’t me.”

“I know, I…” Ron snuffled, and Harry knew he was crying a bit but he made no big deal of it. This always made Ron feel vulnerable and embarrassed enough.

Ron pulled the old blanket tight in his fist, nuzzling it against his face, and held it up against Harry’s chest.

“Are you still cold?” Harry asked. “I can go get another blanket.”

“NO!” Ron answered quickly, and he ducked his head back down under Harry’s chin. “I’m not so cold now,” he answered in a more controlled voice. “Just, um… just stay with me, okay?” he asked quietly.

Harry sank his hand back through Ron’s soft hair again and he heard Ron give a tiny, grateful sigh. “Always,” he whispered. 

 


	2. Dreaming In Whispers

  
Author's notes: I wrote this, once again, for Senoigh  because she made me yet another most gorgeous drawing, found here: <http://hobbitcuddles.livejournal.com/25102.html#cutid1>. I based this story off of the picture and off the first story i wrote for her called  _What Dreams May Come._ If you haven't read the first story, or have forgotten it, it would be helpful to read it first and then read this one. They are intended to be read back-to-back.

* * *

It had been a terrible, mind-shaking nightmare, and afterwards, Ron had just not been able to get back to sleep no matter how hard he tried.

And goodness knows Harry had tried to lull him back into slumber. Harry had rocked him, cradled him, soothed him, held him. Harry had tried everything he could think of, but in the end, Ron just couldn’t force himself to sleep again. The images were still too vivid, the sounds too real, and the dark too encroaching.

He had told Harry he could go back to his own room and go back to bed, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it. He wasn’t about to leave Ron alone after having faced such an ordeal. So they gathered some pillows, and Ron’s old blanket, and went to the living room to drink hot tea and watch whatever was on the Muggle telly.

For the longest time they just sat, side by side on their worn couch, curled up under the blanket, in relative silence (only occasionally making small-talk), mindlessly watching old reruns of footie matches.

Harry didn’t ask questions about Ron’s dreams or try to force him to talk about his feelings, and Ron loved him for that. It was only one of the many things that Ron loved him for. 

Ron loved how Harry understood that he just needed some peace and that he needed to get out of that dark room. Ron distinctly didn’t like the dark anymore, and Harry went out of his way to make sure there was always some light on in their flat. He loved how Harry automatically made his tea extra sweet, and always let him sit in the corner of the couch with a soft pillow, that way he’d feel like he had a safe place to curl into if he needed it.

Harry did all of these things for him automatically, without ever being asked, without ever being told that Ron needed them. Harry just paid attention; Harry _noticed_ Ron and still liked being with him despite all his eccentricities, all his foibles. And Ron loved him for it all.

Ron just loved him.

He didn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to actually say the words to Harry out loud, but he was sure Harry was aware of it anyway. The two of them had always had their own way of communicating. Ron always tried to make sure Harry had hot buttered scones in the morning before he had to leave for work. And he made sure Harry’s Firebolt Two was always polished and serviced, even if Harry hadn’t used it in a while; Ron figured it was just a nice gesture, and one way he could show his thanks for all that Harry had done for him.

It was one way he could silently show Harry that he loved him.

And for once, for the first time in all of his life, Ron was sure that he was loved in return. He didn’t know if he’d ever hear the actual words from Harry either; he figured Harry assumed he was still just too damaged from all that had happened to try to deal with something that important and fragile head-on. 

That was okay. Ron didn’t need to _hear_ the words. He knew Harry loved him; if he didn’t, then Harry wouldn’t be curled up against him (the blanket having slid off to the floor long ago), trying to fight off sleep just so he could keep him company while they watched old footie matches and waited for the sun to rise. 

“Do ya think it hurts when they head-butt tha ball like tha‘?” Harry suddenly asked in a rather Hagrid-like accent, as he tried to simultaneously rouse himself and stifle a yawn. 

“What?” Ron asked, amused. Harry was so very tired and it was definitely starting to show.

Harry pointed to the telly. “When they head-butt tha ball,” he repeated. “Don’ ya figure tha’ hurts?”

“I dunno, maybe. Maybe they’re just used to it by now.” Ron answered, and he tried not to grin at Harry’s expense, though it felt good to _want_ to grin again. “You’re the one that was raised by Muggles, Harry. Wouldn’t you have a better idea than me?”

Harry yawned again and leaned further into Ron’s side. “M’ Aunt an’ Uncle never let me watch any telly. Th’ game’d be a whole lot easier if they jus’ let ‘em use their hands, yeah?” He queried in that strange accent that he only acquired when he was extremely tired and desperately in need of sleep. 

Ron couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s poor state. “Harry, you’re so tired.”

“Oh, ‘m okay,” he steadfastly answered.

‘”Like hell.” Ron chuckled. “You’re practically asleep against me.”

Harry’s eyes opened wide and he sat up away from Ron. “Oh! Oh, well, I can move over, or go back to my room if — “ 

Ron reached over and pulled Harry back to him; even in that short amount of time he had missed Harry’s comfortable weight against him, and that ridiculous accent rumbling against his side. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to go anywhere, not unless you want to.” Ron hesitated for a moment, slightly unsure. “Eh, you don’t want to, do you?” He gently fingered the fringe across Harry’s forehead.

“No!” Harry said resolutely, and he sighed lightly as he leaned into the touch. “Are you going to bed?”

“No,” Ron said quietly, ”not just yet. “But you sleep here, okay? You’ve done more than enough for me tonight. You’ve earned your rest.”

“Ye don’ care?” Harry asked, slipping back into that weird accent as his head fell further and further down Ron’s shoulder.

“Course not!” He told him fondly. “Besides, I like having you here,” Ron added quietly.

Harry smiled sleepily, then he reached up and cupped Ron’s head in his hand. Without second though or preamble, Harry pressed his warm, dry lips to Ron’s and kissed him. It was gentle and just a hint more than chaste, but Ron knew in that instant it was Harry’s way of saying those three words that he thought Ron just wasn’t quite ready to hear yet.

Ron smiled into their kiss, more at ease with himself than he had been in months, possibly even years. As the kiss broke, he laid Harry’s head down in his lap. “You sleep here for now. We’ll go to bed in a little while. Do you want me to pull the blanket back up?”

Harry curled up tight into Ron. “Na, yer warm. This is good.“ A few seconds later, Harry was deeply asleep. 

Ron gazed down at Harry’s slumbering face just as the sun was rising and sending new rays of light through their living room windows. He smiled and stroked the ever- tousled hair back away from his peaceful face.

Peace. 

Harry brought many things into Ron’s life, but above all, because of Harry, he had the chance to know true peace. That was why he loved him.

And that was why he told him so, just then. Ron leaned over and whispered the three words (which, really, weren’t so fragile after all, but were as reinforcing as steel and concrete) softly into Harry’s ear.

“I love you.”

Harry smiled and mumbled a few words in return that Ron couldn’t quite catch (but knew by heart anyway) in his well-deserved, peaceful slumber.


End file.
